Ever feel like you are completely out of control? Yeah, anyway, let's skip the cliches. I'm in a mood to listen to Eminem, which is probably why I descided to quote him in the subject of this entry.

I am too damn nice. I hate these stupid people playing chess with me. I am too damn nice. I wish that my bonhomie would die and I could leave all this dust with it's family. I should've just said, "Fuck you!" Instead I said goodbye. fuckin' A.

Today is one of those days when it's nice to say "fuck the past." And not, "forget the past" or "screw the past." It has to be "fuck." So pick on me for swearing, say it's low class and meaningless debasement, but there's really no other word to describe this than f***.

I was rereading through my old journal stuff, to edit for something else, and saw all the old stuff, idiocy, bitching, all that lela bullshit, and worried awhile about that stuff. But fuck it.

Interesting that I spoke of something killing the creative wit, yet I had wits enough to write a poem, however terrible it was.

This is about timeshares.
The snow is commanded by
the ultimate authority on aesthetics.
But like the projected image
through a box or a hole.
All's fair, it's hard to love
in war, the snow begins to accumulate.
It's Stalingrad, but this time
the Rats aren't glorified.
They only stifle the food supply,
kill the creative wit.

I don't know what to expect here. It's like fantasy, my favorite fictional construct. Taken different ways. Some take it at face value as fantasy, others feel the feeling intended beneath the verses. I find few who see both. There will be someone someday.

This is the last momument of anger and sloth and stupid youth before the calmth of sea shores at dusk and mountains at twilight.

I must read brit's journal because everyone's going crazy.

We are all our own protagonists.

Why not hate christmas? Is the joyousness of the season not putative and given throughout the system. Verily I say to you we are brainwashed into believing it is pristine. I do not encourage hate only objective analysis of your true emotions.

"They say that Jesus and mental health are only for those who can help themselves."
"District sleeps alone tonight after the bars turn out their lights. I can see the cars are swerving off into the lonliest evening."
"You may case the grounds from cascades to Puget sound, but you are not permitted to leave."
-Bnl and TPS, respectively

Sleep, for me, is a cession to the mortality and humanity of my exsistence. I do not desire sleep, but as a human I must do so. Very few times to I settle down to sleep. In fact, I have to read something to get myself to fall asleep. Sleep...sleep...why do you plague me? Sleep is also a cession to the little fatigue monster that pulls at my eyelids and saps my will, even as I type, flip pages, or whatever. It's a cession to weakness. Sleep takes so long, and when I wake up I'm a little gr

I had a submission from last night, but slashdot nerfed it. So, this is in remebrance of that.
;-0

Sigh, things change, don't they? I mean, just when you start thinking someone is cool and open-source, something comes along that they try and shield you from (you know who you are, punk). It's a little jarring when someone takes a stand about something they think about passionately, and you think is irrelevant or idiotic. It's also a little disappointing to have these perfect glass ideals of kids you know shattered. Three people today, Polonius, three people! You kinda knew one, and the ot

Making music is like sitting down on chairs with tin cans and butterscotch. Writing poetry after a social event is like rebuilding The Bomb after the apocalypse. Trying to remeber what to write is about the same as listening to a song whose lyrics *almost* go with your life. And falling in love is a lot like finding the perfect melody, repainting the masterpieces, and knowing exactly what to write, exactly what to sing.